


The Weekend (And It's You)

by barelypink



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Art, Bonfires, Books, David is still a fan, First Date, First Kiss, First Meeting, Food Trucks, Hamptons meet cute, M/M, Patrick is a mess, Summer, The Roses still have their money, The Song of Achilles - Freeform, beach, canon divergent meeting, changing a tire, sloppy sliders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24730219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barelypink/pseuds/barelypink
Summary: It's summertime in the Hamptons and David and Patrick keep running into each other. It takes more than the weekend before they actually meet. A canon divergent two-shot told from both POVs.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 314
Kudos: 347





	1. David - counting constellations

**Author's Note:**

> This has been rattling around in my brain for awhile and has finally decided to come out. Why now? Who knows. It's something of a writing exercise to write the way a song makes me feel if that makes sense. Title and general inspiration taken from "The Weekend" by The Kin. I recommend the version on [Amazon Music.](https://www.amazon.com/Weekend-Kin/dp/B01F9W8U6O) Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine. But a huge thanks to vivianblakesunrisebay for (very kindly) forcing me to write again.

Every summer, the residents of New York collectively declare the city too unbearable to live in and decamp to the Hamptons on the eastern end of Long Island. The very wealthy move into beachside homes with weathered side shingles while the up and coming young professionals return on the weekends to rented bungalows after putting in a full work week back in the city. This means that the weekends can get a bit...out of hand. 

And for the better part of the past decade, David Rose has held court at the Roses’ lush Hamptons estate helping things to get out of hand. David has carefully cultivated a wild, raucous air of anything goes with an undercurrent of all are welcome and God, were they ever. His parties were legendary and clothing was entirely optional. 

David is over it. Has been over it for a long time.

He's bored. And maybe a little bit lost. And ready to move on to….something else.

He just has to get through the weekend. 

David has never looked forward to Monday more, when he can nurse a hangover in private and shame eat soft pretzels to his heart’s content.

But right now, it's a blistering beautiful Saturday and he feels obligated to see this party through to its bitter end. So he's relaxing in a reclining chaise lounge made of imported bamboo and covered with pristine white cushions. He has to replace the cushions every year because someone inevitably spills something on every single one of them, but it's worth it to have the bright clean lines against the dark wood of the chairs and the terracotta tiles of the pool. It makes him feel like he's in the Mediterranean and not still stuck on Long Island. 

The sky overhead is cloudless and unnaturally blue, the kind of blue that only exists in boxes of crayons with pretentious names like cerulean, cobalt, or azure. David raises his hand against its glare, trying to determine if it can possibly be real. Maybe he’s the one who’s not real. 

The pool is filled almost to capacity with nearly naked bodies playing some incomprehensible water game. There are people volleying balls back and forth on the tennis courts behind him and a group whacking some weird colored balls with croquet mallets (or is it cricket?) on the lawn and another group snapping a ping pong across the net at the table tennis thing that Alexis had insisted they buy.

Not that Alexis is here today. Typical.

She sometimes makes an appearance near the end of the summer with her flavor of the month, but David hasn’t heard from her in weeks. But he's decided that he doesn’t need to care about her if she doesn’t care about him and his parties and his legendary status as a Hamptons icon or whatever. So he doesn’t check his phone repeatedly for texts or missed calls that come through at inconvenient times and he certainly doesn’t acknowledge that there is a pit in his stomach whenever he thinks of his beautiful, untameable sister who can’t be contained by any known walls or barriers.

She never needs David, until she does, and so David tries not to think about how much he needs her, which he doesn’t. He’s gotten by just fine without her or his parents for most of his life. And now just look at him. The king of the Hamptons wearing his most impressive “fuck off” sunglasses and holding his latest “don’t bother me” book trying to hide in plain sight. 

David debates if anyone would notice if he just got up and slipped away from the crowds and the pounding music and the laughter and clap, clap, clapping of the ping pong ball against the paddles and the suffocating blue of the sky closing in all around him.

He’s just about to get up when he sees him. He’s someone David has never seen before, but he’s in David’s pool and now he can’t tear his eyes away. A new boy. No, not a boy. A man with a sweet, open, almost boyish face. Compact but muscular, with expansive shoulders and thick biceps, not bulging but somehow both soft and toned all at once. His hair is wet but it’s dark and curling into aggressively precious curls on top, glinting with hints of red when the summer sun catches it just right. 

David can’t help but notice the drops of water sluicing down his broad chest or the way his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles and laughs freely like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like life is easy and good. Whatever he has, David wants it too. 

David stays right where he is and takes in the view through his fuck-off sunglasses, his don’t bother me book completely forgotten on his lap. 

The weekend just got a lot more interesting. 

***

The heat of the day escapes into the stratosphere with the disappearance of the sun and cool, wet air settles across the beach like a damp blanket. David finds himself situated in a low chair in front of a bonfire, logs stacked high so they can last long into the night. The orange flames glimmer and dance inside the fire pit, emitting sparks that jump and snap into the inky black air. He can practically feel the musky scent of the smoke seeping into the knitted threads of his lightweight sweater and into the strands of his mussed hair. David’s front half is warm and toasted, halfway to becoming a burnt marshmallow like the one now rotating at the end of his stick. But his backside is cold where the heat of the flames can’t reach. 

The beautiful boy from the pool is across from him, laughing into the neck of a bottle of beer, face framed by the flames. He has a beautiful smile, perhaps the best one David has ever seen. The man accepts a proffered guitar with an easy laugh and tunes the instrument with practiced ears. He ducks his head with a bashful grin and begins to play. And when he opens his mouth and starts to sing, David has to grip onto the arms of his too small chair and try to hold on.

The man’s fingers are nimble across the strings and he takes requests with laughs and good humor. David wants to yell out names like Whitney, Mariah, Tina and watch him squirm and fall apart. He belts out a few power ballads, some pop hits, but he’s shy about it, uncertain. He makes up words when he forgets the lyrics, changes the key mid-phrase, slows down songs and then speeds them back up again however it suits him. 

But then he turns to the folksy singer-songwriters he was born to emulate and he grows confident and bold. David feels like he’s hearing every song, every lyric, every measure for the first time. For the first time, he understands what these songs are really about. The man is magnetic, electric. He’s worth watching even as his cheeks grow red from the fire and the alcohol, even as his voice grows scratchy with overuse. 

The darkness of the night is deep and full, the sand cool under his feet as David digs his toes into wet grains of sand. The waves against the shore snatch the sound of the man’s voice out of the air with each thunderous crash like it wants it for itself, like it doesn’t want it to carry beyond this little cocoon of fire, salt, and sea.

David tilts his face up to the sky and starts counting the constellations. He lets the music wash over him and thinks that maybe this is the kind of perfect moment he’s always dreamed of, the kind he’ll never forget. 

But in the bustle of cleaning up and packing everything back to the house, David lets the man go without a single word shared between them. 

***

The next weekend, David searches his backyard, the beach, and the main Hamptons drag for a head of brown curls and warm brown eyes but comes up empty every time. 

Instead, he does something very stupid.

David thinks his name is Jake. 

***

The library branch in East Hampton is located in a Tudor style cottage not far from the Rose estate. It has original wooden beams and dark wood paneling and plush leather armchairs but a surprising scarcity of actual books. What they do have is a table right by the check-out desk full of used books to purchase. David likes to pop in a few times a month to browse the selection and buy a book or two. It’s too hard to read ebooks outside and he still prefers the heft of a physical book in his hands.The table is mostly full of beach reads and Mama Oprah’s book club paperbacks, but occasionally a rare and unusual treasure will appear there. He’s found most of his recent favorite reads squashed amongst dog-eared copies of Nora Roberts and John Grisham. 

The trick is to find a book that isn’t too used or hasn't passed through too many hands. David doesn't really like library books for that reason; too many chances to spread germs. But the book sale table is where the Hamptons’ summer guests and weekenders tend to unload their unwanted books and many look as if they haven't been cracked open at all.

David is poking through the pile with one cautious hand when he feels a presence next to him. He looks up haughtily and there is the Pool Boy, dressed in blue and smiling that smile.

“Hi,” David says, the word tumbling out before he can stop it.

Pool Boy’s smile deepens and spreads. “Hello,” he says back and his speaking voice is as sweet as his singing voice.

“Shhh!” The crotchety librarian shushes them from her perch at the circulation desk. A woman of indiscriminate age, she insists on being called, of all improbable things, Madame Currie. David has gotten on her bad side more than enough times to know that she is not a woman to be crossed. He zippers his mouth and cocks an eyebrow at his companion. 

The man is clearly amused but plays along, tucking his chapped lips into themselves and winking at David as he approaches the table. David thinks he looks the type of person who reads serious non-fiction books about wars or biographies of dead presidents. David points at _The Stranger Beside Me_ —who doesn’t love a side helping of serial killer with their barbecue?—and then gestures at the man with a question in his eyes. The man furrows his brow in consternation and shakes his head vehemently. Clearly not a fan of true crime then. David shrugs and moves on. 

Something at the other end of the spectrum then. David points to a weepy romance tearjerker. 

The man cringes. Which is the right response. Nicholas Sparks is the worst. 

Liane Moriarty? David finds her books sensationalist but surprisingly compelling. 

The man shakes his open hand back and forth, the universal sign of _maybe_. It’s cute when it really shouldn’t be.

David realizes he’s having fun. 

Apparently the man is too. His face lights up as he points to the far side of the table where stacks of black covered books sit. David doesn’t even need to see the covers to know exactly what books they are. 

David has been around long enough to know that the complete _Twilight_ saga exists in triplicate at every library sale and used bookstore across the land. He’s certain that the only thing that will survive the apocalypse are cockroaches and hardback copies of _Breaking Dawn_. 

David huffs grumpily and wags his finger at the man with a painfully comedic wince. The man laughs in triumphant silence, his ears pinking up delightfully at the tips. 

David tucks his smile into his cheek and runs his finger down the row of book spines, eyes flickering quickly over the titles, wondering what books the man actually does like to read. A person’s reading habits say a lot about them, after all. 

A brightly colored cover stops David and he risks a glance at the man who seems to be unironically debating the merits of two Malcolm Gladwell books. If David could talk, he’d tell the man he’s wasting his time. They are the exact same book just with different covers. Instead, he picks up the teal book and hands it to the man. A test, as it were, to see where his preferences may lie. 

The man takes the book, reads the title— _The Song of Achilles_ —and flips it over to read the summary on the back. David has already read the tale of Achilles, the greatest of the Greeks, warrior and prince come to slay his foes on the shores of Troy. While other men battle for women and riches, Achilles fights merely for honor and glory, returning each night to the bed of his lover, Patroclus. The book was a revelation; it nearly broke David in two. Would a man wearing flip flops and jean shorts want to read of such love and heartbreak between two men? 

David has always loved myths, fairy tales, fables. Maybe these people only existed on paper, but he tends to think there is a certain kind of truth to them nonetheless. To write of Achilles and his love for Patroclus seemed to say _we have seen this kind of love before_ and _this once was,_ _so it can be again._ David wants nothing more than for that to be true. 

David waits to see if the man will take the book or leave it be, if he’ll shrug and shake his head, and carry on like David hasn’t offered him a paperback version of his heart. David holds his breath, but then his phone rings, loud and shrill from his pocket. Madam Currie tuts loudly and points toward the exit with a malevolent eye. David pulls out his phone to silence it, but sees Alexis’ name flashing across the screen. 

“Shit. I’ve got to take this,” he says at his regular volume and looks to the man in desperation. He smiles, warm and comforting with those gentle brown eyes of his, and David holds up a finger as if to say, _I’ll just be a minute_ , to plead, _just wait for me_ as he hits accept on his phone and walks down the hall out of earshot.

The call takes longer than he anticipated. Alexis needs something—of course she does—but doesn’t know exactly where she is—of course she doesn’t—so nearly twenty minutes pass before David can hang up and slip back into the library. The man is gone, the library empty except for Madam Currie and her flinty stare. But when David looks at the table, _The Song of Achilles_ is gone. 

***

David tries to convince himself that he’ll probably never see the man again. It's the unwritten social contract of the Hamptons; random hook-ups and anonymous encounters are just that. And it wasn’t even a hook-up. Just the possibility of one. 

So David pretends to himself that he doesn’t secretly imagine ever increasing outlandish scenarios where he runs into the beautiful man at the grocery store, or spot him across the candlelit dining room of the 1770 House, or—even more bizarrely—come riding up on a horse at the Hampton Classic with a flowing white shirt open at the collar. This scenario is especially troubling because David never goes anywhere he can possibly smell a horse or step in their manure. 

David probably needs to watch something other than rom-coms. 

It’s hard to say. 

Instead, David finds comfort in visiting one of his most visited spots on the peninsula. The Pollock-Krasner House had been the home and studio of Jackson Pollock and his artist wife Lee Krasner and is now a museum. David likes to visit the old barn where Jackson used to splatter paint all over his canvases with contained chaos. The old wood floors are still covered with layers and layers of hardened paint and David likes the way he can feel the knobs of paint through the bottom of his Rick Owens shoes. The walls are dirty and cracked with age, but the natural light is bright and bold and the room still smells of ammonia and acrylic. It’s full of weekend visitors but all of them can feel that something magical happened here once. 

Now it’s just full of David, trying to get through another weekend alone. 

He turns to go.


	2. Patrick - counting down the hours

Patrick is getting good at starting over. The last time he breaks up with Rachel (for good this time), he decides to make a clean break. No going back for him. He finds a new job and moves to a new city so he won’t be tempted to go back to familiar spaces or familiar embraces when the chips are down and his heart is lonely. The job is good. The city is good. The heart is often lonely. 

But it is good. He feels good. He goes on a few dates and that’s fine. Good. It’s good. He gets a little drunk one night at a downtown bar and lets a man with bright blue eyes and dirty blonde hair kiss the side of his mouth and that’s good too. 

Patrick decides there might be something to that kiss. 

So he starts over again (again). 

He moves to London (the one in Ontario, not England; he’s not that crazy) and enrolls in the MBA program at the Ivey School of Business. It’s a good school (one of the best, actually, for Canada) and it doesn’t even feel like starting over. Most business majors don’t come back to get their MBAs until they’ve had a few years of industry experience under their belt so most of his cohort are in their late-20s too. It’s easy to act like this is the career path he had always intended for himself. 

He intended no such thing. It’s just sheer dumb luck.

But he likes his classes and he loves his spreadsheets and he likes that everyone he meets is new here too so they take the fact that Patrick likes men (like _that_ ) as a given and don’t even question it. 

It feels good to say, “I’m gay” and for other people to say, “that’s cool, man” and to date other men and to kiss other men. And it’s good (really good) and Patrick thinks maybe he should have started over years ago. 

***

A summer internship in New York City is the heart’s desire of every MBA student at the Ivey School of Business. It’s not really Patrick’s, but he still somehow ends up being one of only three students to get one there. So he starts over again (again again) in New York City as soon as the spring semester is over. 

He quickly learns that weekends in the Hamptons are part of the full New York summer experience. Adam and Kyle, his flatmates and fellow interns, are life-long New Yorkers and they insist he has to come out for a weekend or two. Their friends have rented a house for the whole summer and there’s always an extra bed or couch available for him to crash on, they say. 

Patrick thinks “summer in the Hamptons” sounds a little pretentious. He doesn’t even own a single Lacoste polo shirt or sockless brown loafer and he’s not about to start now. Besides, he never knows one day to the next how busy he’ll be at his internship which generally has him working late into the night. But he finally relents one weekend in June and rides across Long Island in a car with Adam and Kyle late on a Friday night. The rented house smells of salt and sewage and the carpets are gritty from the sand that refuses to stay outside. 

On Saturday, they drag him to a house party thrown by someone disgustingly rich, Patrick assumes, because they’ve got a pool and private access to the beach and paid staff to deliver drinks, and Patrick’s not even sure Adam and Kyle know the host. Patrick feels a little uncomfortable about that. But he lets himself get thrown into the pool anyway and tries to have fun anyway and it’s a pretty good day actually. 

But it’s only later that night, when the sun has set beyond the clouds, and a guitar has been shoved into his hands, and they’re circled around a blazing bonfire on the beach that Patrick notices the man through the flames. Patrick doesn’t know if it’s because of the thickness of the summer air or the way the heat from the fire distorts everything, but he’s quite possibly the most beautiful man Patrick has ever seen. Patrick wants to stare at him all night. 

But he plays it cool. He laughs and takes song requests. Does he know anything by Taylor Swift, he’s asked. _Does he?_ (He does not.) But he plays a little Britney, the few verses of ‘Nsync that he knows, a little Avril Lavigne. (He is Canadian, after all.) Then he plays some James Taylor and Neil Young and Leonard Cohen, and he watches the way the man watches him through the crackling fire, and he’d sing for him all night long just to see the way his smile tucks into itself and how his eyes flare with life more brightly than the fire between them. 

***

Somehow Patrick leaves the bonfire that night without getting a chance to talk to the gorgeous man with the dark hair and blazing eyes, but he’s sure there was something there. A spark. His face is burned into Patrick’s memory. He asks his friends who the man is, but they don’t seem to know either. 

“You idiots,” one of the girls at the house finally says with a scoff. “That was David Rose. It was his house and his beach we were using. He's a goddamn legend around these parts.” 

Patrick Googles David Rose and reads all about his celebrity hook-ups and high end SoHo art gallery that hosts exhibitions of contemporary and performance art. He reads about his family’s wealth and international properties and lavish lifestyle. A man like that would never want anything to do with a lowly summer intern from Canada. 

Patrick knew that spark had been too good to be true. 

***

The next weekend, Patrick elects not to go to the Hamptons. He ends up working that whole weekend anyway so it's just as well. But his fingers flying across the keyboard sound like the crashing waves and the heat of the city feels like flames licking up his insides and he imagines that he can still feel the sand between his toes. 

***

He is here. David Rose. Right here. In front of him! Patrick is in the East Hampton Library and David Rose is in the library! And the soft, tender look on David’s face when Patrick says “hello” back to him makes Patrick think that David Rose might actually remember him. Patrick is going to talk to him (finally) but then the librarian shushes them and David Rose looks properly chastened (which is admittedly a very cute look for him, Patrick thinks) and so they begin to communicate with fingers and eyebrows and nods instead. 

David Rose (Patrick can only think of him with his full name; it’s a thing) has a very expressive face. So expressive that Patrick feels like he doesn’t need words to know what David is thinking or feeling. It’s all right there, written in his knitted eyebrows and his smirking mouth and tilted chin. They’re teasing and taunting each other through books. And David Rose is smiling! At him! 

He’s just handed Patrick a book with a knowing look when David’s phone rings, breaking the moment with its shrillness. David looks upset and says he has to take the call, but seems to indicate to Patrick that he will be back. Patrick looks at the book still in his hand. On the cover is a burnished gold helmet, old like the antiques he’s seen in museums. He turns the book over and reads the blurb on the back. A story about Greek heroes and war. It doesn’t seem like the kind of book someone like David Rose would gravitate toward, but he’d seen the look on David’s face when he’d handed the book to Patrick. 

Like it meant something. 

The minutes stretch long and Patrick feels awkward standing there by himself. He catches the time on the clock above the librarian’s head and groans. He’d promised Adam he’d meet him for lunch and he’s already late. He can’t make him mad because he’s Patrick’s ride back to the city. 

Patrick takes the book to the front desk and pays to purchase it with a sad, sinking feeling in his chest. He’d never even gotten to tell David his name. He gives one last look at the table full of books and leaves the library alone. 

***

Patrick reads the book that weekend in every spare moment he has, sliding his hands across the beach-weathered pages so they rub against his fingers like sheets of sandpaper. He reads it when he’s back in the city, during snatched moments at his desk or on his lunch breaks, right before bed when his eyes are heavy and refuse to stay open. He tears his way through the story and he knows how it’s going to end, but wants to get there faster all the same. The prose is almost as terrifyingly beautiful as the story it tells, this love song of Achilles and Patroclus. 

In the end, it’s Patroclus and not Achilles who sacrifices everything for the love of a man and a cause he feels is right. In the end, it is Patroclus and not Achilles who is the best of the Greeks. 

David Rose doesn’t even know his name, Patrick reminds himself, but it crosses his mind a time or two that Patrick and Patroclus probably share a common derivative. David Rose doesn’t know his name, but Patrick takes it to mean that maybe he is good enough for David Rose after all. 

And the next weekend, he is going to find David Rose and make him believe that too. 

***

Anxiety eats through Patrick’s stomach lining the whole drive to the Hamptons that weekend. He can’t stop drumming his hand against his thigh or sighing loudly and he knows he’s driving Adam and Kyle crazy but he can't help himself. How exactly is he going to find David Rose? And say actual words to him?

Aside from just showing up at his house unannounced and acting like a total stalker? 

No one has heard if David is throwing a party that weekend either, so that excuse is off the table. Maybe Patrick could just wander through the Hamptons, hoping to bump into him. Maybe he should wait by the book table at the library and hope David stops in again. Patrick had even considered returning _The Song of Achilles_ with his name and number written inside for David to miraculously discover but the odds of that being successful are so dismal that Patrick dismisses it out of hand.

Patrick doesn’t want to leave this to fate. 

He’ll find a way. If not today, then tomorrow, he promises himself. 

Instead, he lets himself be talked into going to a museum with Kelsey, one of the people staying at the house the whole summer. He really wants to strategize his game plan for accidentally on purpose finding David Rose but then Kelsey mentions it has something to do with modern art and Patrick thinks he should know a thing or two about that if he’s going to impress someone like David Rose. He probably doesn’t care about pivot tables and bridge graphs the way Patrick does so they’d need something to talk about. 

The museum turns out to be the old home of a pair of artists. Patrick has heard of Jackson Pollock, at least, so he feels a little better about that. They’ve just missed the tour of the house and will have to wait for the next one, so they’re directed to the old barn where they have exhibits about Jackson Pollock’s creative process. It’s small but Patrick likes the weathered shingles on the sides, the quiet calm of the nearby water, and the layers and layers of every color of paint crisscrossing the floorboards under his feet. It’s a bit crowded for such a small space, but a large group leaves and then, like a miracle, Patrick sees him standing next to a display of old paint cans. 

David Rose turns around and sees him too. 

“Hi,” David says, surprised. Relieved.

“Hi,” Patrick breathes. He takes a step forward. “I’m Patrick.” He extends his hand.

“David.”

David puts his hand in Patrick’s. 

“David Rose, I know. I was hoping I might see you again.”

David smiles and blushes. It reaches all the way to the tip of his ears. 

And David’s hand in Patrick’s is warm and strong and his smile is wide and this is good, Patrick thinks. 

This is _really_ good. 


	3. Patrick - blind before i met you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David and Patrick go on their first date. It gets a little bit messy. Another two-shot told from both POVs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did intend the original two-shot to stand on its own as a fully contained story. But, well, I kept thinking about this version of David and Patrick and discovered there was still more of their story I wanted to tell. Using the same format, chapters three and four follow David and Patrick's first date and is told from both their perspectives. I wrote this two-shot to also stand on its own, but that could also change if the right inspiration strikes to continue the story. :) 
> 
> Chapter titles taken from "First Day of My Life" by Bright Eyes. Another huge thank you to vivianblakesunrisebay who basically willed this whole thing into existence and then held my hand (and beta'd) while I freaked out about it.

Two minutes after officially introducing himself to David Rose in front of Jackson Pollock’s paint cans, Patrick wants to ask him out on a date. Five minutes later, Patrick wants to kiss him. Ten minutes later, Patrick is entering a phone number under a new contact listing for Rose, David. 

“You shouldn’t wait to use that,” David says with a clear, clipped voice as Patrick enters in the last four digits of David’s phone number. 

Patrick’s head snaps up to look at David. “Oh? And why’s that?” 

David smiles. “There may be an expiration date on me answering.” 

“But you don’t even know my number. How will you know it’s me and know not to answer?” 

David merely cocks an eyebrow. “I guess you’ll find that out when you call.”

Patrick tucks his phone back into his pocket. “You don’t want mine too?” 

“That depends on what you do with mine, doesn’t it?” 

Patrick is about to say something snarky, because David’s actually being a bit of a dick, but he thinks he’s doing it to tease and Patrick actually loves that. He loves to tease. Like they were able to do, before, over a pile of used books and no words without even knowing each other’s names.

“Hey, Patrick, they’re ready to start the—” The female voice trails off when Kelsey walks into the room and sees Patrick standing close to David Rose. She looks faintly embarrassed, like she’s interrupted an intimate moment. “Oh. Uh, the tour’s about to start. But you’re busy, so I’ll just….wow. Is that Jackson Pollock’s paintbrush? Definitely need to see that.”

She points at a display case to her left and pretends to be engrossed in the text label. Patrick doesn’t know her that well, but he’s growing very fond of her all of a sudden. 

“Well, I guess I should go then,” Patrick says, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “Don’t want to miss my tour.” 

David looks at him with surprised eyes, like he didn’t expect Patrick to give up so soon. But Patrick knows a thing or two about new beginnings and how to do them right. 

Patrick leaves the room with Kelsey, but they only get a few steps away before Patrick stops and pulls out his phone again and whispers to Kelsey. “I’ll catch up. I just need to make a quick call.” She gives him a knowing look but heads toward the exit with a salute. Yup, definitely his second favorite person in the Hamptons right now. 

Patrick jabs the send button and presses the phone to his ear before he can change his mind. In the next room over, he can hear a phone ringing. He walks a little further away, closer to the exit, just in case. 

“Hello?” 

David’s voice is in his ear but also echoing from the room Patrick just left. It feels like he’s hearing David Rose in surround sound. 

“Hi, David,” he says, brightly, a stupid grin forcing his mouth wide and his voice high. “This is Patrick Brewer. Maybe you remember me? We’ve met a few times.” 

Patrick hears a soft chuckle in his ear. “I have a vague recollection, yes. You have appalling taste in literature,” David says. 

Patrick laughs and forges on. “Is that so? Maybe you can berate me about that more tonight. Have dinner with me.”

“You didn’t want to think about it a little bit longer?” David asks, and there’s a little bit of, well, there’s a little bit of hesitance and uncertainty in his voice. It's rather endearing. 

“David, I waited as long as I could.”

There is a pause, a pause so long that Patrick is sure he’s messed it all up with his teasing, with his bravado, with his cheek. Or maybe David Rose is just fucking with him. He loves that David is still keeping him on his toes. 

“Say yes,” Patrick says. 

David’s voice is breathy and low. “Yes.” 

Patrick can practically hear David smiling through the phone. He forces himself not to go back into the exhibit space to see it for himself. 

Instead he says, “Good. I’ll text you the details in a bit.”

“Okay.”

“And David?” Patrick is pretty sure David can hear the smile in his own voice. 

“Yes, Patrick?”

“Put my number in your phone.” 

***

It is only after Patrick has practically forced David into agreeing to go out with him that Patrick realizes some key things, namely: 1) he has no car or form of transportation, 2) he has no clue where to eat, and 3) he has no money to pay for one or two. 

Well, not no money. He has some. He had some savings before going back to school and his internship pays him pretty well, but between New York City rent and needing food to survive, there’s not much discretionary funding left. 

After a frankly embarrassing amount of groveling, Adam agrees to loan Patrick his car so he’s not reduced to inviting a literal third wheel in the form of a Lyft driver on his date. No rented cars with unknown drivers to make things more awkward than they need to be. Patrick puts “take Adam’s car to the car wash” on his list of things to do before tonight. There are some suspicious looking stains he needs gone before he lets David Rose into the car.

He enlists Kyle and Kelsey to help him pick a restaurant. Some place not too fancy but clearly not beachwear casual. Some place delicious and upscale but that won’t break his meager wallet. He knows David is probably used to the best, and maybe he’ll be disappointed by it, but Patrick remembers what it felt like to look at David through the bonfire flames and hopes maybe David won’t mind so much. Not if he felt anything like what Patrick had felt. 

They find a place not far from David’s house— _mansion_ , Patrick thinks to himself, _he lives in a fucking mansion_ —and Patrick calls to make a reservation. He’s relieved they still have a 8 o’clock opening. 

Kelsey helps him find something suitable to wear since he mostly just packed a swimsuit and some T-shirts. But he did leave for the Hamptons straight from work so he has the suit he wore all day on Friday. It’s a bit rumpled, but Patrick thinks if he hangs it in the bathroom while he showers and then runs it over with an iron— _please God, let this house have an iron_ —the pants and shirt won’t look so wilted and rough. The shirt is an almost new light blue button down with a faint herringbone pattern that he thinks will look summertime dressy if he leaves at least one button undone at the top. Maybe two. 

He thinks about David’s warm, bright eyes and his wide, full lips and the sound of his name in David’s mouth, rounded like a pearl, hard on the consonants. 

Two buttons then. 

***

Patrick is running late. Well, late for him which means he’s actually five minutes early. He’s more nervous than he can ever remember being for a date before. He’s so out of his element here—with the person, the place, the plans. But he’s a take charge kind of guy. He’ll just take charge like he does. He’s good at that. Isn’t he? He can do this. He really can. 

He pulls into David’s driveway in Adam’s perfectly serviceable silver Volvo S60 and if anything, the house looks even more intimidating in the setting sun’s afterglow. The house is composed of so many tall windows, all reflecting back a riot of dusky pinks, yellows, and oranges. 

Patrick rings the doorbell at the imposing double doors and panics for a moment, wondering if he’s going to have to make small talk with a butler or some such thing, but he’s relieved when David opens the door himself. And he’s….well, he’s magnificent. He’s wearing a [ black sweater with floating white astronauts ](https://www.bergdorfgoodman.com/p/valentino-mens-spaceman-sweater-prod153620015?ecid=BGCS__GooglePLA&utm_source=google_shopping&adpos=&scid=scplpsku121340069&sc_intid=sku121340069&gclid=CjwKCAjw57b3BRBlEiwA1ImytryZDkJPGYPXQsA6vEpzFtZAgLCG48uRPA2xz_KHg6ZjJzcNkA0UoBoCTYcQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds) and neatly pressed black pants that end mid-calf and pristine [ white velcro sneakers.](https://shop.nordstrom.com/s/givenchy-urban-street-sneaker-men/5428550?origin=category-personalizedsort&breadcrumb=Home%2FMen%2FShoes&fashioncolor=White&color=white)

“Wow,” Patrick says uncontrollably, “You look…”

“I look?” David parrots back. 

“Amazing. You look amazing.” 

David smiles, clearly pleased. “So do you.” 

“Please, I’m wearing yesterday’s work clothes.” Did Patrick really just say that out loud? 

“Maybe I wasn’t talking about your clothes,” David replies, shutting the door behind him. And did he just wink at him? Patrick feels a bit undone. 

Patrick opens the passenger car door for David and then slides into the driver’s seat. He is thankful yet again that he got the car washed and vacuumed today. He doesn’t want to talk about some of the wrappers he discovered shoved under the driver’s seat. He hopes he can still look Adam in the eye tomorrow. 

“I made us reservations at East Hampton Grill,” Patrick says as he carefully reverses the car and sets them on the right path. It’s less than a ten minute drive away. 

“Oh, I’ve been there before. It’s good,” David says and Patrick can’t read his tone. Suddenly good doesn’t sound good enough. Patrick grips the wheel tighter and swings left out of David’s driveway onto Further Lane. A quiet awkwardness descends. 

They haven’t gone far but Patrick feels it immediately, that sickening pop followed by a vicious jerk that only a blown tire can mean. Patrick guides the car to the grassy side shoulder of the two lane road on hobbled wheels. 

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” David cries, gripping the side of the car door. “This isn’t a ploy to lure me into the woods and murder me?” 

“David, no. I think we’ve got a flat tire. I promise when I lure you somewhere it won’t be to murder you.”

Patrick gets out of the car, checking first for non-existent oncoming traffic, and notices that there aren’t any houses on this stretch of road, just looming pines and tall cedars and maple trees. It does feel rather murdery. 

David cracks open his door and calls out. “Who do we need to call? Do you have a subscription with those Triple D people?” 

“It’s Triple A, and we don’t need to call anyone, David,” Patrick says with what he hopes is a confident smile. “We can just change it ourselves. I’m sure there’s a spare tire in the trunk.”

Patrick begins to roll up his sleeves and pops the trunk. David’s door opens wider and David gingerly peels himself out of the car with extreme reluctance. 

“Hi. So. I think I should state for the record that my participation in this endeavor shall merely be in the emotional support capacity.” 

Patrick peeks his head out from behind the open trunk and looks at David’s darting eyes and wringing hands. David looks part nervous monkey, part stranded alien. Patrick still really, really wants to kiss him. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll excel at that,” Patrick says with a smirk. He pulls out the jack, socket wrench, and spare tire and gets to work. He props the spare against the car and moves to the front passenger side wheel to start loosening the lug nuts. He’s glad there’s grass and not just dirt on the side of the road. David’s shoes have clearly never seen the great outdoors. 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” David asks from behind Patrick’s hunched form. 

Patrick smiles up at David. He’s got this. “I’ve got this, David.” He does, doesn’t he?

The lug nuts don’t want to loosen and then he can’t get the jack into the right position because of the slight unevenness of the grass beneath them. David starts to fidget. The sky darkens and looks decidedly ominous between the trees. 

“I could use a little more light,” Patrick says, and he hopes he sounds more confident than he feels. It's never taken him so long to change a tire before. “Could you maybe use the flashlight on your phone?”

“Yep. Yeah, I can do that,” David agrees, but he seems very nervous to be roped into the proceedings. He positions himself to Patrick’s left and shines his light into the wheel well. There’s no help for it. Patrick has to get onto his back to get the jack into place. He finally gets the car raised and heaves himself to his feet and begins to tug the blown tire off the axle. But he loses his grip when the wheel finally springs free and it careens straight into David’s legs and rolls across David’s white shoes in horrifying slow motion. Patrick is there in seconds, lifting it up and away but the damage is done. David’s shoes are marked with black streaks, grit and grease and bits of asphalt embedded into them. 

“David! I’m so sorry. I can...shit. I can replace them. Your shoes.” 

He’s never spent more than a hundred dollars on a pair of shoes—but only on specific shoes like his hiking boots—but David’s clothes are obviously designer and expensive. He can see the difference just looking at them. The shoes don’t look like anything special, really, but that doesn’t mean they don’t cost more than his bimonthly paycheck. 

David blinks. “Don’t be silly. You don’t need to replace them,” he says with a hand wave. 

Patrick swallows around the lump in his throat and tries not to feel silly. He feels very, very silly right now. 

David points his flashlight back into the empty wheel well. “Let’s just fix the thing.”

Patrick gets back to it. It takes hardly any time for Patrick to get the spare tire up and into place and the lug nuts secured into their slots. He throws the mangled tire into the trunk with the jack and wrench and slams it closed with a sinking, sick feeling. The date is ruined. It must be. The sun is completely gone now and their reservation must be too. He checks his watch. It's nearly 8:30. 

Patrick attempts to wipe his blackened hands on the rag he found in the trunk. He tries to look everywhere but at David’s ruined white shoes. 

They get back into the car and drive the mile to the restaurant in silence. The restaurant is packed. Of course it is. It’s Saturday in the Hamptons in the summer. Patrick tries to act more confident than he feels when he tells the hostess their name and reservation time. Her face does a comically tragic frown and she tells them they’ve already given their table away. 

Why didn’t Patrick think to call to let them know they were running late? This is all his fault. 

Patrick picks at the dirt now lodged underneath his nails. He needs to go wash them properly, so he ducks into the immaculate restaurant bathroom and watches his hope circle the drain along with the soap. 

When he returns, David touches his arm, gentle. David really is kind. Patrick thinks David tries to hide that side of himself, but Patrick can see it in his eyes. 

“They have a table for us if we still want it,” he tells Patrick. His voice is matter-of-fact. 

Patrick chokes on a laugh in his throat. Maybe it’s a sob. “I’m covered in dirt and your shoes have tire tracks on them. I’m not sure...maybe I should just take you home.”

David looks intently at Patrick’s face and if he sees Patrick’s lip tremble, he doesn’t let on. He seems to be making a decision and then. “I know a better place. Let’s go.”

They’re back into the car and then David is guiding them away, away through the hot, humid night. 

***

The better place turns out to be a food truck called Nice Buns. The small white trailer is parked behind a steakhouse in a completely nondescript parking lot across from a wooded state forest. (Is all of Long Island just one big potential murder scene?) It serves gourmet sliders, two to a basket, hot dogs, and french fries. David can’t decide which ones he wants so he orders four different types and promises to share. In minutes, there are eight sliders, a basket of truffle fries, and sweaty glass bottles of soda on a rickety white plastic table between them. 

David digs in and his eyes immediately roll so far back into his skull that Patrick worries about his health. When he comes to, there’s a dollop of barbecue sauce in the corner of his mouth. Patrick tries to hide his smile as he hands David a handful of paper napkins. The food is good, really good. Probably way better than whatever expensive entree they would have ordered from the restaurant Patrick had agonizingly picked. David seems much happier shoving half an Asian tuna slider into his mouth anyway. 

“These are some very nice buns,” Patrick says with a wink. He’s finished up his half of the fish slider and is debating between the Cuban or cowboy slider next. 

David sips his Dr. Pepper. “Aren’t they? I love this place.” 

Patrick nods and shoves another indescribably good fry into his mouth. “So, do you have a ranking system for nice buns then?” 

David squints at Patrick but there’s a smile playing around the corner of his lips. “I recognize a well-made bun no matter where I find it,” David says. And then, almost off-hand, “Those are some nice pants you’re wearing tonight, by the way.” 

He says this right as Patrick takes his first giant mouthful of Cuban slider and half of Patrick’s pork, ham, and dill pickle shoots out the other end and falls into his lap. Patrick can feel it oozing between his legs. 

“Shit,” Patrick says before grabbing several napkins to wipe fruitlessly at the mess. The napkins just crumble and flake off with every swipe. David stands up and moves to the truck. When he returns, he’s holding a bottle of water and more napkins. 

“Here.” He hands Patrick the water and napkins and oh, those kind eyes are back now. 

Patrick feels the mortification climbing up inside of him but mutters a thanks as he carefully scoops the remains of his slider back into the basket and then carefully pours water into the napkins and gingerly wipes at the sticky mess left behind. 

“God, I’m such a mess.” Patrick laments, wanting to fling himself into the sun. “I swear I’m not such a mess all the time.” 

David shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re a mess.” But he’s smiling so he’s clearly also a liar. 

“I’ve ruined my entire outfit and your shoes. I’d call that a mess.” Patrick’s hopes for a second date are steadily sinking. 

“Well, when you’ve vomited into Jonathan Taylor Thomas’ hair after doing lines with Jodi Sweetin in John Stamos’ bathroom, you learn to forgive a mess or two,” David says, almost carelessly. “Just as an example.” 

Patrick stares. “You may have just ruined my childhood right there.” 

David smirks. “I have a lot of stories like that. My sister has more.”

“I can’t decide if that’s supposed to make me feel better or not.” 

David merely shrugs with a well-worn smile. “Better, hopefully.” 

And Patrick feels a surge of hope that maybe he can recover from this disaster of a first date. David seems to be a very generous person, datewise. He doesn’t know if he deserves that. He picks up his slider and tries again. And this time, Patrick gets it successfully into his mouth and not into his lap. 

They talk. The moon rises high above the trees and the whirl of the food truck’s generator purrs behind them. They talk about books and _The Song of Achilles_ and coming out and bad reality TV. They talk until their food is gone. They talk about their families, their jobs, the future. They talk until their food has been gone long enough that David starts to want another slider. 

_Dessert_ , Patrick declares, jumping to his feet. _Ice cream_ , David insists, the only treat for a night like this. David grabs Patrick’s hand and shoves him toward the car. 

“To Gemellis!” he cries and Patrick doesn’t care where they are heading, as long as David is there with him. David, who talks like he looks: perfectly, beautifully, expansively, passionately. David, who ignores his ruined shoes and the stains all over Patrick’s clothes and instead smiles at him with his whole face. 

Gemelli Gelato is not far away. Its wide, covered portico is full of ice cream-licking patrons. The inside looks like an ice cream cone exploded but one bite of his stracciatella gelato makes a convert out of Patrick. Ice cream in hand, they go outside. The ice cream parlor is set back from the road and there’s a wide grassy lawn and a small trail that runs behind. The moon is high and lights the way so they step onto the path together. 

David’s eyes are bright as his tongue licks and laps at the melting gelato in his waffle cone and his hand brushes against Patrick's once and then twice. Patrick feels his knees go weak. His lips are frozen cold but there’s a bonfire of heat coiling through his insides. 

This has been by measures the most awkward, imperfect, and messy first date of his life. But Patrick doesn’t want this night to ever end. He already wants to do it again. 

And again. 


	4. David - know where i want to go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters Three and Four are being published together. Please be sure you've read Chapter Three (Patrick's POV) first!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references Madeline Miller's _The Song of Achilles_ and mentions some plot points from the book but hopefully I'm not giving away any 3,000 year old spoilers. I don't think you need to have read the book to appreciate the conversation they have about it.

Every kiss tells a story. 

David’s kissed a lot of people, so he’s got a lot of stories. David holds onto the good ones even as he remembers the bad ones and the not-so-special ones in between. Because no matter what the kiss, good or bad, they’re always the beginning or the ending of something. 

David stares at the phone in his hand with the ghost of a smile on his face. Even before Patrick Brewer asked him out in that deliciously confident way of his, David knew he was going to say yes. He moves, dreamlike, to save Patrick’s number to his contacts. 

And David knows, even before he’s left the museum that he’s going to kiss Patrick Brewer tonight. And when he does, David wonders what kind of story it will tell. 

***

It’s been awhile since David’s had a real date. It’s been awhile since someone cared enough to make the effort. Which was okay for a long time until one day it wasn’t anymore. There aren’t enough dirty blow jobs in bathroom stalls to erase the ache of loneliness lodged deep in David’s ribcage. David could probably do something about that, but he’s been burned a few too many times to willingly make the first move anymore, not for something more than a quick fuck. But now that’s all he wants. 

Something more. 

And Patrick’s face is so earnest and bright and clean and he just looks like someone who cares, someone who knows what something more means. Someone who maybe wants that too. He also looks like someone who isn’t going to chart your stars and dump you because Mercury is rising and Saturn is in retrograde or some such bullshit. 

Also, fuck you, Cheyenne.

They haven’t said much to each other yet, but David can tell Patrick is different. David picks his clothes with care. Well, more care than usual, which is a whole lot. The Prada capris, the brand new white Givenchy sneakers, the Valentino sweater with the floating spaceman. This feels a bit like a fantastic voyage. Not to be so literal about it or anything. He does his going out skin regimen until his skin is glowing and his stubble is the most kissable length. He gets the perfect swoop in his hair, not a strand out of place. 

He’s just checking his reflection in the floor length mirror in the atrium when the doorbell rings five minutes early. David gives an appreciative nod to his reflection.

“All right,” he says to himself and goes to open the door. 

He has a good feeling about tonight. 

***

It turns out, Patrick Brewer is a bit of a disaster. It should not be a) as adorable or b) charming as it is, but here David is, utterly charmed. David feels a kinship, being a certifiable mess too.

Sure, his brand new $600 Givenchy shoes are bound for the trash bin and he had to touch something rubbery that was not ribbed for his pleasure, but he hadn’t minded the way Patrick looked when he was changing the tire, the stretch of his shirt across his back, the flex of his forearms, the competent, dextrous hands, the shape of his ass as he squatted beside the car. And then there was the way the tiny flashlight from David’s phone formed a halo around Patrick’s head, flecked as it was with bits of dirt and grass, and the strain of his biceps as he hefted the wheel into place. 

And sure, they lost their dinner reservations, but David’s actually pretty happy about that. He gets dragged to the East Hampton Grill all the time because it’s the closest decent restaurant, but there’s only so many shrimp cocktails a person can eat. Still, he can tell Patrick is trying to do this date by the book and he looks devastated by their missed reservation, so David throws his name around and slips the hostess a $20 bill to find them a table while Patrick is washing his hands in the bathroom. When Patrick returns, his hands are wet and rubbed raw but clean, even under his nails. David appreciates his attention to detail. There’s also a smudge of grease on his chin right where the hinge of his jaw meets his ear but David doesn’t even try to figure out why he likes that just as much.

And he doesn’t try to figure out why the sight of Patrick unloading the contents of his slider onto his lap makes his heart clench in extreme fondness. Patrick is a mess, but David still wants him. 

And now Patrick is tidied up and grim faced, pink all around the edges, but seems determined to repair some aspect of this night. “I read your book,” Patrick says when there’s a lull in the conversation (such as it had been). “The one you gave me at the library.” 

“Yes, I did notice it was gone when I came back,” David acknowledges hesitantly. 

“You came back?” Patrick sounds surprised. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I wasn’t sure,” Patrick says with an apologetic face. “I wanted to stay but I had to meet a friend.” 

David feels a flicker of jealousy but pushes it away. “And what did you think of the book?”

“I loved it. I’ve never read anything like it.”

“Like what?” David asks sardonically. “Fiction?”

Patrick laughs and ducks his head, embarrassed. “Hey, I read fiction. Sometimes.” He squints a bit. “No, like a love story between two men.” 

“There’s lots of love stories between two men.” 

“No, I know. It’s just...have you ever noticed how every queer love story ends in tragedy? Like one or both of them dies, or they experience extreme trauma and homophobia, or they have to go live a fake life pretending they’re not gay. Just once I want to see a gay love story that has a happy ending, you know?”

David smiles into the lip of his soda bottle. “You did read the end of the book, right?”

“Yeah. It made me cry.” Patrick is quiet. “Am I allowed to admit that?”

“Only if I’m allowed to admit the same.” 

Patrick sighs and seems to decide something. “I only came out two years ago.”

“Oh.” David’s fidgeting fingers slow down and stop. It feels important to give this conversation his full attention.

Patrick continues. “I felt a bit stupid about it, for awhile, actually. I always thought that would be a fundamental thing you’d know about yourself really early on. So why did it take me so long?”

Patrick really is an adorable mess. David wants to lick his neck. Instead he says, “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. It’s no one’s journey but your own.” 

Patrick huffs. “Says the queer icon of East Hampton.” 

David throws back his head and laughs. 

Patrick scrunches the napkins in his fingers. “In the end, I’m glad it took me longer. I know myself better now. I know what I want now.” 

David is quiet, afraid to ask. In almost a whisper he says, “And what is that?”

“Something like what Achilles and Patroclus had. Not just a bond of bodies, but of...more. No matter what, they always had each other.” 

“There is something beautiful about that,” David says quietly and begins to hope. 

“I thought the book was maybe a message,” Patrick admits, raising his eyes to meet David’s. “That maybe I’d have to wait like Patroclus until I could find you again. But it made me want to try. To find you, that is.” 

“So in this scenario, I’m Achilles?” David lifts one perfect eyebrow. 

“Yes. But don’t let it go to your head.” 

“Too late for that.” David smiles, and there’s something winding through his ribs like it wants to explode out of his chest. “What do you think now?” 

Patrick throws his crumpled up napkin into the empty basket and his mouth ticks up on one side, slow, with promise. “I think it was worth the wait.” 

***

There is no possible way to exude sexiness when lounging about in a cheap plastic chair but David doesn’t even care. They’ve been talking and laughing and teasing and getting to know each other for what must be hours now and he hasn’t thought about the sorry state of his clothes at all. (Except right now. Right now, he’s definitely thinking about his shoes.) His fingers are still slick with the salt from the outrageously good fries that are long gone and he’s already hungry again. He wonders if Patrick would think less of him if he ordered another basket of sliders. 

“Would you think less of me if I got more food?” David interjects. Apparently, he’s also lost most of his filter now that he’s feeling so comfortable around Patrick. He thinks he should feel apologetic but Patrick just laughs, delighted. And David realizes all in a rush that the thing about Patrick that’s so different than all the others is his lack of judgment. Patrick sits there with his ridiculous eyes and gentle smile and listens to David and seems captivated by him. Patrick just accepts him. 

And isn’t that something?

And now he’s smiling at David, who wants more food, and says, “We should get dessert!” 

Well, David can’t resist an offer like that. 

“Ice cream!” David says and they hop into the car with its one gimpy tire and drive to the ice cream parlor with the best gelato. (And David has tried all the ice cream places within 30 miles. He knows.) It’s a warm evening so the place is full of people but David doesn’t mind having to wait in line when he’s got Patrick standing right there next to him, teasing him about his incorrect ice cream topping preferences. 

And yes, wasabi peas are an acceptable ice cream topping, thank you very much. At least he doesn’t like old man flavors like butter pecan like _some_ people. 

He pulls Patrick onto the path that runs behind Gemellis where there are just tall trees and no people. He feels safe here with Patrick as they walk and eat their ice cream and their hands brush every so often and David can feel it tingle all the way up his arm like jolts of electricity. 

David remembers the anatomical drawings they had to study in his art classes before they could work with the nude models. They had to know the map of the body so they could chart the bones and organs and sinews correctly as they coaxed flesh out of paper and ink. David had always been fascinated by the tendons, ligaments, ribs, and lungs of the chest and the heart right in the bleeding core of it. 

But the heart is a migratory vessel, David thinks now. Because there it is in the throbbing edges of his fingertips where they brush against Patrick’s warm skin and it's thumping like a rabbit in the tender pit of his stomach. It’s lodged in his throat as he tries to push air around its aching lump and it settles into the soft bend of his knee as if to steady shaky legs. 

David has ice cream melting down his fingers as he draws Patrick closer and closer. He looks at Patrick’s eyes and discovers that’s where Patrick’s heart lives, right there in the warm brown irises where the pupil should be. David’s hand moves to Patrick’s face, covering the smear of grease still streaking across his jaw. One stroke, two, and then he lowers his mouth to Patrick’s. 

***

Every kiss tells a story. When David’s lips meet Patrick’s for the first time, David knows what this story is. 

It’s the beginning of a love story.


	5. David - i've got a bad desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the weekend at the Hamptons. Another two-shot of their Sunday together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles taken from "I'm on Fire" by Bruce Springsteen. I'm particularly fond of [this cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LVW95Mxv6k) by The Staves.

“Come home with me,” David whispers against Patrick’s lips. They’re still behind Gemelli’s and there’s still melted ice cream dripping down his hands. It makes him want to get even messier. 

“David,” Patrick kisses him again and shudders, although the night is warm and their lips are hot between them. “We shouldn’t.”

David pulls back to consider Patrick who looks dazed and extremely flushed. There’s definitely desire there. That’s not the problem. 

Patrick looks at the ice cream cone in his hand as if he had forgotten he was still holding it. He steps away to a metal trash can and throws it away. David considers eating the rest of his, but decides to follow suit. Warm ice cream is a travesty, even when licked off a waffle cone. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Patrick says, handing one of his napkins to David. “But I promised my friend I would return his car to him tonight. And I’ll have to get up early to find a place that can replace the tire before we head back to the city. But I’d like to see you again tomorrow, if you’re okay with that.”

“I suppose I could clear my schedule for you,” David says. There is no schedule to clear, but still. It’s good to never appear too eager. And he is so, so eager. 

“I think you should,” Patrick says and he steps closer to David for another vanilla flavored kiss.

***

David loves to touch and be touched. He loves the thread of fingers through his own, the scrape of nails against his scalp. He loves the feel of skin-on-skin and the brush of bodies that circle each other and then interlock. And though he wants to touch Patrick everywhere all over all at once on every square inch of him like a blind man reading Braille, he keeps his hands in his lap as Patrick drives him home. 

Patrick talks logistics for tomorrow afternoon. He really likes to explain himself. Or rather, he seems to need to lay out his agenda, his logic, his reasoning. There’s so much intention in the way he speaks, the way he acts, the decisions he makes, the choices he pursues. David has lived moment-by-moment for so long, he’s never understood the soothing allure of making plans but it makes him feel warm and safe in a way he never expected. He loves the way Patrick lays out his plans and how David feels comforted by it, can start to expect that Patrick will call when he says he’ll call, show up when he says he’ll show up. That David can begin to craft his life around the rhythm of another person because Patrick will orbit him in predictable patterns. 

When Patrick is done talking, he reaches across the drive shaft for David’s hand and squeezes. David thinks Patrick will simply let go and return his hand to the wheel, but he keeps his hand in David’s and that feels warm and safe too. 

***

Patrick walks David to his front door when they get to David’s house. David studiously avoids thinking about this so he can keep himself together. He reaches for the doorknob as if to remind himself that he shouldn’t grab Patrick by the limp collar of his basic cotton button down and manhandle him into his house and onto his bed. He restrains himself when he sees how pink and sincere Patrick looks under the antique gas lamp of his front porch. 

“I..uh…,” Patrick stutters, adorably flustered. “I had a really great time tonight. Even despite the mishaps and the mess.”

“I did too,” David admits. 

“I’m really glad I’ll get to see you again tomorrow, David.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come in right now?”

“No,” Patrick laughs nervously, fiddles with the edge of David’s sweater sleeve. “I think...I think we really have something here, David. I’d like to take this slow. If that’s okay with you.” He meets David’s eyes, hesitant.

Something. Something here. Between them. 

“Yes,” David breathes. “That’s okay with me.”

Patrick slots his hand around the curve of David’s face and kisses him soft and languid like a dream. When David finally stumbles into his foyer after several more minutes of saying good-bye to Patrick, he regrets everything. 

Slow is going to kill him. 

***

Half in a daze, David flicks on the light of his walk-in closet and sinks onto the padded stool in the corner to unlace his shoes. David is not particularly sentimental about his clothes. He’s ruthless about culling out-of-fashion pieces and staying on trend, and he’s never felt bad about throwing away an old pair of shoes or an out-of-style sweater before. David should just dump his destroyed Givenchy sneakers and be done with it, but for some reason, David can’t bring himself to do it. 

He takes a soft wet rag to them and works it into the miniscule creases of the supple white leather. The dirt comes up easily in some places but digs in even deeper around the seams and in the velcro straps. They’ve obviously been through a traumatic experience, poor shoes, and they’ll never look pristine again. And yet, David likes them that way. They have character now. David rubs them down with a dry cloth and sets them next to his Rick Owens high tops. No sense in casting them out yet. That would just be cruel. 

***

The next day, as promised, Patrick shows up a little after lunchtime. He sets a duffel bag down by the door with a sheepish grin.

“My friends are going to pick me up on their way out of town so I packed before I came over. They’ll be here around six o’clock.”

“And that’s all you packed for a weekend?” David asks incredulously, waving a hand at Patrick’s lumpy bag. 

“Yeah, why?” Patrick shrugs. 

David raises one mystified eyebrow. “This is never going to work. We clearly have nothing in common.” 

“Oh, see, I thought we had a lot in common. Like this.” 

Patrick’s arms reach out and draw David close to him, wrapping around his waist. He presses a chaste kiss onto David’s lips and smiles at him. 

“Yup,” David nods his head and smiles back. “We definitely have that in common.”

Patrick laughs and presses another kiss to David’s cheek. 

David can’t stop the flutter he feels in his stomach. “Would you like a tour?” 

“Yes, please.”

So David shows Patrick the kitchen and dining room, the in-home movie theater, the sunroom with its many plants, and the basement workout room. He does not show him the bedrooms. One of the household staff is working in the kitchen and Patrick insists on talking to her, asking her name. David doesn’t think he can remember any of his other guests ever doing that before. He looks at Patrick like he’s a wild unicorn. 

“You want to watch a movie?” David asks, nervous and wrong-footed. Slow, Patrick had said. Who even knew what that meant when you’re 30 years old? Most people were more than happy to skip the getting-to-know-you part to get to the sex part with David. It was….efficient. 

Patrick considers David’s question, but then shakes his head. He seems dimmed, subdued. There’s hesitation in his muscles, in the set of his jaw, the bottomless well of his brown eyes. David is trying not to panic; he never should have agreed to going slow. He clearly isn’t able to hold someone’s interest if he’s not putting out, as he always expected. David looks around, desperate, for something for them to do and sees the glint of bright sun against the water of the pool. 

“It’s a hot day. We could go for a swim?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick smiles, slow like liquid. “That sounds great, actually. I packed my swimsuit in the bag you disparaged earlier.” 

David points out a bathroom for Patrick to change in and then slips into his own room. Of all the rooms he has scattered throughout his parents’ properties, this is one of his favorites. It isn’t excessively large but it gets the best light and it’s crisp and clean with modern edges and a bright palette. He debates between his swimwear choices with increasing dread and desperation. Whatever possessed him to suggest getting half naked in front of Patrick when there’s not the promise of getting fully naked with him later? 

He selects a pair of deep blue short swim trunks that emphasize his long, lean legs. David knows what his best features are. When he emerges, he finds Patrick gazing at the family photos in the living room wearing long swim trunks and a faded T-shirt, a small smile playing at his lips like he’s still a bit dazed. 

“Is that your sister?”

“Yes,” David says, glancing up at the old photo that’s at least five or six years old. “Alexis.”

“You two close?” Patrick asks with an oblivious smile. 

It should be an innocuous question but nothing is ever simple when it comes to Alexis. Do he and Alexis confide in each other and have common interests? Nope. Do they bicker and antagonize each other like it's their job? Yep. Does Alexis call David whenever she’s in trouble and does David drop everything to help her? Every single damn time. 

“In a manner of speaking,” David finally replies. 

“I always wanted a sibling,” Patrick says good naturedly. “I’m an only child.” 

David hums non-committedly. He doesn’t want to talk about Alexis right now. “Ready?” he asks, pointing toward the pool.

“Yes,” Patrick says, still smiling. “Yes.”

David grabs towels from the linen closet in the mudroom and tugs Patrick through the French doors and into the sparkling glare of the backyard. David has never been much for exercise, but he does actually like swimming. He likes the way his body feels weightless in the water and the way his arms and legs seem full of untapped power as they stroke through the rippling water. 

They don’t give into the temptation to be shy about their bodies or their bodies together in the water. They swim a few laps each and make a few laughing grabs for each other, enjoying the way bodies collide and slide in buoyant bodies of water with the scent of chlorine clinging to their skin. It doesn’t take long until their legs are tangled together and their arms are wrapped around each other. 

“This is where I first saw you,” David says like it’s a confession, arms tight around the sinewy length of Patrick’s neck.

“Wait. You did?” Patrick sounds breathless and awed. 

“Yes. I was sitting there,” David points to his favorite lounge chair, “and you were playing some game right here with your friends.” 

“I didn’t see you,” Patrick says, almost wistfully. “I didn’t notice you until the bonfire that night. I’m sorry. We were terrible guests. I never even tried to find out who the host was.”

David waves Patrick’s regret away as if it doesn’t matter at all. “No one cares about that.” 

David likes Patrick like this, wet and alone, soft and reverent. But he still seems a bit skittish, doesn’t quite meet David’s eyes as the water swirls around them. 

“Hey,” David says softly, afraid this thing between them is already over before it has properly begun. “What’s the matter? You seem a little….quiet today.”

Patrick nods and water drips from the tips of his hair. David wills himself not to watch the droplet track its way down Patrick’s chest. 

“Sorry. I think my friend got into my head a bit, is all.” Patrick smiles sadly. 

“Oh,” David says, the only thing he can say when he can’t think of anything else. 

Patrick’s face is twisted and strained and David is about to loosen his grip but Patrick looks desperate and his fingers tighten at David’s waist. “Is this just a weekend thing, do you think?”

“A weekend thing?”

“A fling.”

“I don’t know what this is,” David admits. And then quieter, “You’re the one who said we should go slow.”

“Right,” Patrick says, suddenly looking devastated, lower lip caught between his teeth.

David sighs and looks away. “It’s okay. Most people don’t want more than a fling with me.” 

Patrick's eyes are stuck on David, brown and serious. “Well, I’m not most people. And that’s not what I meant.”

David looks at him then and smiles. “No, you’re not like most people,” he agrees.

“I want more than a fling,” Patrick declares boldly. “I want to see you next weekend and then the weekend after that.”

The sun is hot overhead but the water is cool and David shivers, feels it all the way down his spine. There are goosebumps pebbling his skin even as it burns. 

“Yes,” David breathes, like his body wants to answer before his mouth does. “I want to see you again too.”

Patrick’s hands slide up the ladder of David’s spine and then they’re kissing again. “Good,” Patrick says against his lips, beaming brightly, like a lighthouse. “Good.” 

They kiss. They get out of the pool so David can apply more sunscreen to Patrick’s glowing skin and then they lay on side-by-side towels and kiss some more as the sun plays hide and seek between the trees. Patrick chases the droplets of water as they dry against David ‘s skin, marking each spot like he’s consecrating sacred ground. They kiss until Patrick needs more sunscreen when his skin starts to burn again. They kiss until David is breathless with it, until his lips are raw and his cheeks are chapped from Patrick’s stubble. And always, always, there’s the promise of Patrick’s mouth where his fingers had been. 

David pulls Patrick back up to his feet, their skin and hair almost completely dry. David’s hair must look appalling, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even care at all. And he can’t help but sink his mouth back into Patrick’s, marveling at the way they fit so perfectly together. Like they were always meant to do this and they’re just picking up the tune halfway through a familiar song. 

“Your lips are dangerous,” Patrick says, and releases his hold on David, chest heaving with some monumental effort to breathe through his own lungs. 

“You say that as if it’s a problem.”

David can feel Patrick’s laugh from where it starts in his belly. “No. It just makes it really hard to stop kissing you.”

“Well, why are you trying to stop then?”

“We’re going slow,” Patrick reminds him as he steps back into David’s space, lips ticking up with desire. “So your lips are off limits right now.”

So he kisses across David’s cheekbones, the sharp cliff of his chin, tugs at an earlobe and then trails a line of kisses down David’s neck and David shudders despite the hot gleam of the sun across their shoulders. Patrick smiles at him and traces feathery light fingers at the spot on David’s neck he just kissed. 

“I’m claiming this spot for me,” Patrick says and brushes his lips across David’s tilted neck. “This is right where my lips fit.”

“Mm. It feels nice.” 

Patrick rubs his thumb across the spot and David knows he’s going to check it later for a mark, maybe an X that says ‘Patrick’s’. 

“My lips are safe from you here,” Patrick whispers and fits his head right there, in the crook of David’s neck and it’s true. He fits right there so easily. “But you should know how much I want you when I kiss you here.”

And David can feel the kiss before it lands, a shiver already halfway down his spine as Patrick’s mouth finds its place along David’s neck and David tries to hold on, to stay steady on his own two feet. 

***

The hours tick by, a countdown to the end of their time together. They manage to clean themselves up, change back into their clothes and collapse in a tangled heap on the couch. The TV is on but David only hears the sound through the stuttering beats of his heart as they talk about future weekends together. Just after six o’clock, as promised, they hear the crunch of tires on the drive and Patrick’s friends have arrived to whisk him back to the city and his real life, not this hazy summer dream. 

David walks Patrick to the door and thinks he’s never had a better weekend in his life. It feels like a revelation even though it shouldn't be, even though it’s a simple and verifiable fact. 

Patrick's hands are around David’s face, cupping his cheeks, stroking his jaw, strong and real, so real. “Next weekend,” he whispers, applying another fierce kiss to David’s mouth, dropping another kiss on David’s neck. “I’ll see you next weekend. I’ll text you as soon as I make it back to the city.”

The best weekend of his life, David thinks again as Patrick disappears through the door and into the waiting car. And there, in the tiny hopeful place just below his heart, is the startling promise of more.


	6. Patrick - i'm on fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted two chapters today so be sure to read chapter five from David's perspective first!

When Patrick was little, he was what some might have generously called exacting. His mother called it perfectionism. His school counselor called it anxiety. The prescription was plans. The hours and days and weeks and months and years are mapped out in Patrick’s mind, a way to shape order from the unknown, to find balance amid the chaos. 

No one would accuse Patrick Brewer of being spontaneous. It’s just not the way he operates. And he’s okay with that. life. And it’s not like he hasn’t undergone some significant changes through the years. He can be flexible. He sees where he needs to change and then he plans the change out. Like breaking up, like coming out, like moving to a new city. 

But David Rose makes him feel reckless. David Rose makes him feel alive. 

And he likes it. 

He never planned on that. 

***

Sunday morning finds Patrick sitting next to Adam at a local tire store, waiting for the blown tire to be replaced. Adam had grown up in Manhattan, the son of an investment banker and a corporate lawyer, so while he isn’t Rose level wealthy, his family is definitely New York City comfortable which means he would be considered rich anywhere else. Adam seems unperturbed by the unexpected expense of replacing his tire but Patrick can’t stop shaking his leg up and down in nervousness. 

“Relax, dude,” Adam says for what feels like the fifth time that morning. “Dad already told me to just put it on my Amex card. You don’t owe me anything.” 

“But it’s my fault…” Patrick tries again. They’d already had this argument once today. 

“The tire was old. It would have happened on our way home today and that would have been worse. Better to take care of it now and not somewhere in the middle of Queens.” 

“I just feel bad is all,” Patrick says and tries to still his bouncing leg. He wipes his sweaty palms across his pants. Patrick wonders what it would be like to not have to stress out about money, to just be able to wave his credit card in front of a problem without a second thought. He’d always had everything he needed growing up, but it was done so through careful budgeting and saving. He’d always known the worth of a dollar, always had to work hard for his financial security. It has never been a given the way it is for people like Adam or David.

Patrick can’t help smiling at the thought of David. He must look like an idiot because Adam definitely notices. 

“Thinking about David Rose again, are you?”

Patrick ducks his head and blushes. “Guilty.”

Adam looks out through the large picture window that connects the waiting room to the garage where they can see the Volvo suspended in the air. Adam rubs the back of his neck and turns to look at Patrick again as if he’s just made up his mind about something. 

“Look, I didn’t want to say anything before, but just be careful, okay? I’ve been around guys like David Rose my whole life. You can’t really trust them. And he’s got a reputation.” 

Patrick’s mouth turns down but he nods grimly. “I know. I Googled him. But he’s different than the internet says he is. Last night was a disaster. He should have written me off, but he didn’t. He turned what should have been the worst first date of my life into the best.” 

Adam shakes his head with a derisive click of his tongue. “Man, you’re already a goner.” 

“I’m not naive,” Patrick counters, trying not to sound argumentative. “I’m going into this with my eyes wide open.” 

Adam guffaws. “Look, even I can admit that David Rose is very good looking…”

Patrick snorts loudly.

“...but you know this is never going to be more than a weekend thing, right? You may see each other every weekend for the summer but you go back to Canada in September and then what? A long distance relationship? He moves to Canada to be with you? Please.” 

“Are you saying that I shouldn’t try to have more than a fling with David or are you saying I shouldn’t have anything with him at all?”

Adam sighs. “All I’m saying is that you think you’re going into this with your eyes wide open. But it seems like you’re also going into this with your heart wide open too. Just...try not to get it broken.” 

Through the window, they can see the mechanic motion that the tire is done. They both stand up and there’s nothing more to say. Patrick wouldn’t even know what to say if there was. 

***

Adam’s warning is still reverberating through Patrick’s head when he steps into the marbled entryway of David’s house later that afternoon. He wants to just ignore, cast it aside, but Patrick has never been as good at letting go as he is at starting over. He knows David can sense his hesitation and David’s tentative smiles and careful brown eyes cause a warm ache to spread through Patrick’s body. He wants him in a way that Patrick has never wanted anything before. He wishes he could just enjoy what he has in this moment and not stress about the future.

But then they’re in the water, slick bodies sliding together as they pass each other in the pool and Patrick forgets everything but the feel of David’s skin under his fingertips, David’s lips against his own. The air is hot, breeze-less, and the sun is merciless in its glare. Patrick’s pale skin doesn’t stand a chance. He can feel the sizzle of it under his skin and finally calls a truce and climbs out of the pool to sit under the canopied shade of the terrace. David looks like some Mediterranean God, bronzed and glistening as he gracefully lifts himself out of the pool. 

“Sorry,” Patrick says, shielding his eye against the glow of the sun or maybe just David’s torso. “It’s the Irish in me. I burn and don’t tan. If I’m lucky, I get a bunch of new freckles before turning white again.” 

David smiles playfully. “Lucky for you, I happen to be quite fond of freckles.”

Patrick doesn’t believe David has much tolerance for imperfections, but he appreciates his lie nonetheless. 

“You need some sunscreen?” David asks, toweling himself off where the water runs likes rivulets down his legs. His already short swimsuit leaves nothing to the imagination and Patrick finds his throat dry. 

“That’d be great. Thanks.” 

David appears by his side with a bottle of sunscreen and takes it upon himself to slather Patrick down. Not that Patrick minds. The sunscreen is so expensive it feels like being rubbed with gold. David smooths the liquid into Patrick’s neck and shoulders, his back and chest with sure strokes. Patrick feels lit up from the inside, his own sun inside of him. 

David looks into Patrick’s eyes as he snaps the lid back into place and drops a kiss onto Patrick’s shoulder. “That should do it,” he says and then Patrick is kissing him. It’s kiss David or fling himself into the sun to become one with the liquid ball of hydrogen. 

Patrick loses himself in the feel of so much of David’s skin beneath his hands, the warmth of it even with the faint wetness still clinging to it. He loves the way David responds to touch, how he throws himself into it, and how his skin seems to go on and on, so there's no end to where Patrick’s fingers can roam. There’s just a never-ending constellation of corners and creases and dimples to explore. Patrick could lose himself here, in the tangle of fingers, the scrape of legs between legs, the avalanche of mouths and tongues until he’s completely overcome, gasping for air between the gaps.

Patrick thought the sunscreen David applied was a shield, liquid armor to keep him safe from the sun. But now he sees it for what it was, a great unravelling. David has laid him bare and stripped all his defenses. 

Patrick can feel it, how he’s already anticipating all the days and weeks and months and years that he wants to spend kissing David. It’s too dangerous to keep kissing David when he feels like this, so he pulls back and reaches for other places, lays claim to a spot on David’s neck where his lips seem to fit just so and pretends he’s not rewriting a future in which David Rose is always there, by his side. 

_Go slow_ , says his brain. _Go slow_ , says his mouth. But his heart. His heart has never beat faster. It’s wide open, David’s for the taking.

***

David takes Patrick’s “go slow” edict to heart and so they somehow manage not to make each other come by dry (or rather damp) humping each other in their swimsuits, but it’s a near thing, at least for Patrick. Patrick feels drunk on David or the sun, maybe both as he changes out of his swimsuit. David unearths a variety of snacks as they settle onto the couch together, the television a scramble of sounds behind them. 

“What did your friend say? About me?”

Patrick hears David’s voice as if through a tunnel. He’d like to deflect the question, but he knows David deserves an answer. He just hopes he doesn’t scare David off with how quickly he’s fallen for him, how much he wants to plan his life around him already. “Oh, he told me to be careful. Said you have a bit of a reputation.” 

David shrugs, but doesn’t seem offended. “He’s not wrong.” 

Patrick sits up and reaches for David’s hand. “It doesn’t matter to me.” 

“Maybe it should,” David says quietly. “Maybe it does matter.” 

“He doesn’t even know you,” Patrick insists. Patrick wonders at the way David seems to just accept that others should have a negative opinion of him and how it came to be that he’s now defending David to himself. 

“And you think you do?” 

“Yeah, I think I do,” Patrick says, threading his fingers through David’s. “I know I’d like to.” 

David pulls his hand away, not meanly but meaningfully. “How many people have you slept with, Patrick?” 

That startles a nervous laugh out of Patrick. “What kind of question is that?” 

David snorts and looks away. “You can remember them all, can’t you? Remember their names, probably took them on proper dates first?” 

Patrick rubs the back of his neck, wondering how everything fell apart so fast. “I mean, yeah, probably. I’m not really good at casual.” 

“And I’ve never done anything but casual. I can’t even remember half the people I’ve slept with and I remember even fewer of their names.” 

And now Patrick gets it. David is just as scared as he is, but for wildly different reasons. “Is this you trying to scare me off? Or you trying to talk yourself out of this?” 

David does look at Patrick now. “Both?” 

Patrick smiles at him and reaches for his hands again. “Well, don’t.” 

David turns red as he watches Patrick’s thumb stroke across the back of his hand. “I think I want more than a fling. But I don’t really know how to do anything else.” 

“It’s easy,” Patrick says, because he knows how to do this. “I’ll text you and then you’ll text me back. Sometimes you’ll text me first. We’ll talk on the phone and get to know one another.” 

David sighs. “You make it sound so easy.” 

“It can be, David. It can be really good. I like to make plans. It’s what I do. And all the plans I’ve been forming in my mind for the last 24 hours have included you. Does that scare you off?” 

David just smiles at their interlocked hands. “No. You don’t scare me. You terrify me.”

“That makes two of us.” 

“So next weekend?” David asks, voice low and yearning.

Patrick turns David’s hand over and presses a kiss in the middle of his palm. When Patrick looks up, David’s eyes are blown wide with desire.

“Next weekend.”

  
  
  



End file.
